“They might not catch any Frogs today, sir. They don’t always come out and you never know what way they’re going to go. Might be a week before we see any trade, sir.”
“Or they might have sent a division out on manoeuvres in the forest lands, Cooper, and we might see far more business than we want!”
After breakfast Septimus decided on an inspection of the camp, all unwarned; he could not sit to his paperwork, he found, not while more than one hundred and fifty of his men were distant from his control and marching in the way of danger.
He was amazed to discover the camp in near perfect order, sentries posted exactly where they should be in his opinion, tents all neat and tidy, the off-duty men all shaved and precise, quietly talking or playing cards or working up their uniforms. Not a sign of a Crown and Anchor school of illegal gamblers; not a sniff of a gin bottle; no Portuguese girls plying the oldest trade in secluded corners – all quite amazing. Adding to his disbelief, a substantial number of men were sat in the sunshine with books, reading with obvious enjoyment, and there were two classes running, illiterates learning their letters, again with seeming pleasure.
Septimus caught the eye of one of the most senior men, jerked his head, beckoning him quietly across.
“Sergeant Emery! What the f… I beg your pardon, Sergeant, whatever is going on?”
“Major Perceval, sir, has told all of his men that they cannot be promoted sergeant ever if they ain’t got their letters, sir. The sergeant writes up the most of the Company Books, sir, so he’s got to be able to use a pen, sir, and ink. Told ‘em all, so ‘e did, that the sergeants we got at the moment has mostly got grey ‘air, them what ain’t bald as a badger’s arse, sir. Reckons we goin’ to need ten sergeants before the end of this campaign, sir. Thing is, sir, ‘e’s right, too. A goodly number of the men ain’t never seen a school, sir, and some of them are bloody good soldiers, men to follow, sir. So they got together and asked about if any bugger could teach they the way of writing. Got two ushers, sir, what was schoolteachers but ran away into the army, and three blokes what was monitors in school and knows a bit about the masters’ trade. The lads all puts a penny a week into the kitty, them what wants to learn, which ain’t all by a long chalk. Time we gets to see some pay, they teachers is goin’ to be well off; then they’ll get so pissed there won’t be no lessons for a week, I reckons!”
“Ran away for being drunkards, the teachers, I suppose?”
“No, sir, not for that, or so I ‘as bin told. One of ‘em took ‘imself a wife, sir, and found she was a bloody shrew, sir. Buggered off acos ‘e couldn’t take ‘er mouth no more. Come the end of the wars, sir, and it’ll be America for ‘im; you won’t see ‘im in Twyford village never again. The other one, well ‘e ain’t never opened ‘is mouth about why ‘e left ‘is school, and that’s ‘is business, but we all got our doubts about why, but we ain’t sayin’ nothin’ to no one!”
“Quite right, too. A man is a soldier; what he was, and what, shall we say, he got up to when he was not a soldier, is no business of ours. Why is the camp so polite and neat and precise this morning, Sergeant Emery? It ain’t natural! No camp was ever like this of a morning!”
Sergeant Emery began to chuckle.
“Told ‘em they couldn’t pull the wool over your eyes, sir. Bet ‘em in the mess that they wouldn’t! Thing is, sir, the old ‘ands, them what ‘ave been with us for a few years and seen the old Shiny, which is what they calls India, sir, and Corunna as well, they sort of thought you wouldn’t be best pleased at being ordered to stay back while the Major took ‘is companies out. They said you’d be out on the prowl, like, walkin’ the camp lookin’ for trouble and ready to damn the eyes of any man what was out of line. So they warned the blokes to be good. Only, you know what they are, sir, they decided to turn the place into Sunday School, just to see if you’d believe it like.”
Septimus did not enjoy the realisation that he was so predictable in his behaviour; he did, however, much appreciate that the men felt it was safe to play their joke. It was a display of loyalty, almost of affection.
“Pass the word that I much approve of the reading and writing classes. When we get back to barracks I shall have a reading room built, and put books in it for the men to use for free. The two teachers, are they both privates still?”
Sergeant Emery confirmed that they were, said that both would appreciate the penny or two extra of a corporal, as well as liking the recognition of their use to the battalion.
“When the war ends, if it ever does, Sergeant Emery, then men who can read and write may find it easier to get a job.”
“Won’t make no difference, sir, not to most of ‘em. We been at war since before they grew up and they reckons we’m goin’ to be fightin’ for the rest of their lives, sir. They can’t reckon the land’s ever goin’ to be at peace, sir; it ain’t natural.”
Septimus retired to his tent, pondering the sergeant’s words. He, Septimus Pearce, was also a man made by war, living as a soldier and enjoying the life. To be strictly accurate, it was the only life he knew or could imagine; he could hardly remember his boyhood, and suspected that he was choosing deliberately to forget it. Would he be able to live as a civilian on half-pay, pottering around his little estate, sitting on the bench as a magistrate, possibly spending a day or two working with the Lord Lieutenant of the County on what little there was of local administration? It seemed unlikely. But the alternative was a life in the barracks, the sole excitement being to go out on riot duty; unless he was posted overseas, to the fevers of India or Africa or the Sugar Islands, and he could not take Marianne and the children back to that existence. It was a worrying prospect, peace.
Major Paisley came back in late afternoon, not a musket fired, not a man’s face carrying powder marks.
“Not a sniff, sir. Nothing in sight. Not to worry, sir, try again in the morning. Thing is, sir, no way of telling where is best to go. The Frogs didn’t come past our place today – so does that mean they are more likely to tomorrow, or have they found a better track to use so they won’t be coming back our way ever again?”
“No telling, Major Paisley. Impossible to make a reasoned decision, so it will be just luck.”
“Probably, yes, sir. We could send another pair of companies out, sir – double the chance of one of us catching something.”
“Not tomorrow, Major Paisley. If we get no nibbles then we shall talk to the brigadier later in the week, perhaps.”
It was four increasingly tedious days before Major Paisley returned triumphant, herding five prisoners, including, as he proudly pointed out, no less than a Frog major, and carrying thirty muskets and ammunition pouches.
“Thought they might come in handy one day, sir. Give ‘em to the Portuguese, perhaps, or hand them across to these guerrillero chappies you told us of, sir, when we get to Spain.”
It was a sensible thought, Septimus admitted.
“Two dead, three wounded of ours, sir. One of their sergeants held a platoon together and fought his way out, sir, scuttling back a few yards and then holding while the others withdrew through him, six and six about, sir. We lost Meek, sir, very gallantly, the damned fool! Ran forward after the French, waving his sword and calling the men on. No point to it at all, sir – the French was falling back, the fight was over and we had taken only one man wounded up to that point, sir. We lost two dead, two hurt, for one idiot boy’s idea of being a hero!”
“It happens, Major Paisley. When the enemy is coming forward, there is the time to play the bold part; when the battle is over, the day is won – what in hell is the point to it then? They should kick the backside of every usher in every school in England; it might well shake their brains up and drive home the message that ‘Honour’ is a very good thing, but it ain’t to be found on the field of battle! Young officers come out from their benches at school with their head cram-packed full of nonsense; goddamned Horatio holding his bridge should be banned from every classroom!”
Major P
aisley thought the prescription excessive, but he agreed that the schools had much to answer for.
“Did you bring his body in or put him underground on the field, Major Paisley?”
“Brought him back with us, sir. I had no wish to delay on the edge of the woodland, sir. It seemed likely that the Frogs would return to pick up their own wounded at least.”
“Quite right, sir. Speak to the adjutant, get him to organise a grave and a burial party. What of our wounded?”
Major Paisley shook his head.
“One belly, sir; t’other has an arm to come off.”
Both men were lost to the battalion.
“How many Frogs, Major Paisley?”
“Thirty-three dead, sir; seventeen wounded and down, left on the field for the Frogs to pick up. We counted twelve bloodied and running, may have missed some, of course. They were about one hundred and twenty strong, sir, eight abreast, for some reason – I suspect it was simply the width of the track or valley they had just come along. We were in a double line among the trees, a bit higher than the road they were following, and fired odds and evens into them when they came level. Six clean volleys, sir, three from each man, in a minute. Very good practice, sir, and the men remembering to aim low for being that bit uphill! As nearly perfect as a man might ask for, sir! I have told the men how pleased I am already.”
“Half of the enemy hit; an excellent piece of work, sir! That will have broken their spirit, of a certainty. Did you get an estimate of officers and sergeants down?”
“Three were certainly officers, sir, and I saw four with the gold stripe on their arms, which I believe marks their sergeants.”
“Even better! They will not rebuild those companies with any degree of ease, Major Paisley. We must take your prisoners to brigade. Cooper! Lieutenant Duvivier to me, please.”
Five minutes saw Duvivier speaking to the French major, taking his name and details so that, he said, his people might be informed in order to see if exchange was possible. Bonaparte had forbidden formal exchanges of prisoners, but it was amazing what could be accomplished on campaign, far from the Emperor’s eyes.
“You have his particulars, Lieutenant Duvivier?”
“Yes indeed, sir, in sufficient detail for our needs, sir.” Duvivier risked a smile, for he had pumped the man dry very efficiently. “He is second in a regiment of infantry, recently made after his predecessor was taken sick and sent back to France. There is a deal of illness throughout their army, attributed to a cold winter with insufficient food, even for the officers. The one hundred and twenty he had in his little column was every man in his regiment, he said, who could march for a whole day without falling out. They were concerned, he said, to establish our exact location and numbers, particularly of guns. They had heard that we had recently been reinforced, or they presumed so; a scout on horseback – he did not say, but I presumed he meant a Portuguese renegade – had seen the guns and men marching towards us last week.”
“Are we to expect them in an attempt to drive us away, do you think, Lieutenant Duvivier?”
“I believe, sir, from the little he let drop, that there is a bridge close to their rear, certainly less than a day’s march, which forms a bottleneck. Was that bridge to be held against them then they would be forced to march another twenty miles south west, in effect to cross in front of Lord Wellington’s army which would then have the opportunity to force battle on ground unfavourable to the French. They would, he said, present their flank, an undesirable thing for an army, one gathers. They will wish to ensure that we are not able to take the bridge, he said, but he did not inform me how, realising perhaps that he had been a little garrulous.”
Septimus took Lieutenant Duvivier with him to Colonel Dudley, let the young officer give his information first hand and be congratulated for his efforts.
“A bridge, Sir Septimus. Distant less than a day, say ten miles to their rear, sufficiently close that they suspect our eventual aim may be to make a sudden push and close it to them for a day or two. We would be driven off eventually, obviously, but even a single day could be enough for Lord Wellington’s purposes – if he was aware of its existence. Our first priority must be to inform headquarters of the French fears.”
Long-winded and remarkably obvious, Septimus thought.
“Yes, sir. Send one of our own, sir, or wait for the next delivery of despatches, sir?”
“My orderly can ride to the Castle where your Portuguese fellows can carry it to headquarters; that would be quickest. Then we must wait on orders, Sir Septimus. I might add that I would hope that those orders might not be to discover and destroy or hold the bridge. The French must have garrisoned it, if it is so important to them, and with no small detachment if they suspect we have a reinforced brigade here!”
“Agreed, sir. I am quite certain that His Lordship will bear that in mind; he is not one for killing off his men unnecessarily.”
That was slight comfort to the man who worried that he might be sacrificed out of necessity.
“Do you plan to continue your ambushes in the woods, Sir Septimus?”
“Not this week, sir, or next, with your permission. I suspect most strongly that the French will be more than a little irritated by this action. Time to act the snail, sir, to draw our heads in and play least in sight. Let them venture towards us, if they wish, and punish them if they come too close. They wish to know our strength, sir, and have tried infantry in the woodland and been thoroughly slapped down; next step is to seek an alternative.”
Septimus thought he had made it fairly clear what he expected, but it was only courtesy to let the gentleman come to his own conclusions.
“Cavalry in the open valley? A squadron at a distance to persuade us to fire upon them so that they may count the number and estimate the calibre of our guns?”
“Probably, sir. It would be a simple way of confirming that we have fortress guns in our company, thus to tell them that we are not planning to go away in the immediate future.”
Colonel Dudley thought the prospect through, trying to discover what he suspected seemed obvious to Septimus.
“Long twelve-pounders says a permanent sort of base, Sir Septimus, or that would be logical. They would not believe they merely happened to be conveniently to hand. They might then suppose that we intended to use the makeshift fort as a point to concentrate our forces safely prior to sending expeditions to attack or harass them. They may not know that it would be effectively impossible to bring the whole army here, so they may feel obliged to cover an advance from here as a possibility. Alternatively, they might come to believe that their lines of communication were under threat from our presence… And then there is the bridge, just to complicate matters… They really must discover our nature, do you not think, Sir Septimus?”
“I would expect them to make efforts to do so, sir.”
“Then, let me think, Sir Septimus… Ignore them at first, while they remain at a distance. Do not open fire on their initial showing. They will be obliged almost to close the range, to provoke action from us… Shield the guns, I think, Sir Septimus! Timber, what-do-you-call-thems? The things the old archers was used to hide behind?”
Lieutenant Duvivier begged permission to speak.
“Mantlets, sir. Woven willow branches, originally, sir.”
“Well done, Mr Duvivier! Just the word I was seeking! No willow just here, but with a little of goodwill I am sure we can find an equivalent. Hide the guns behind these light screens that can be pulled away in a second when the need arises; let the Frogs come closer and closer, driven by their need to see, then a full bombardment under open sights at half a furlong or less, canister over ball, and see what report the survivors take home!”
Men who had seen most of their fellow-troopers destroyed by a sudden blast of fire would be inclined to much exaggerate the number and size of the guns that performed the execution. It was a good plan that should deceive the French most efficiently.
“We might provoke a ful
l siege as a result, sir. If the French come to believe that we are too powerful a threat to be left on their flank, they might find themselves obliged to get rid of us.”
“Would they dare, Sir Septimus, with the bulk of Lord Wellington’s army almost in contact with them? It would be a great risk to take.”
“It would indeed, sir. One wonders just what their reaction will be. There is only one way to find out, sir, and we did not join the Army to enjoy a quiet life!”
Colonel Dudley was not entirely sure he agreed with that last comment; he had joined the Army because in his family the second son always did so. He had always thought himself to be the lucky one – the third son always became a clergyman and the fourth a barrister-at-law; it had been so for generations and could not be changed. Now, faced with the prospect that he was about to bait the French and perhaps bring a whole division down upon his head, he was not completely convinced that he approved of tradition, or not quite so whole-heartedly.
The country boys in the ranks reawoke their old skills and began to weave sheep hurdles, each exactly a fathom long and a yard tall, because that was the size of them; it always had been. Septimus knew better than to attempt to suggest that they might be made larger, or square even; right was right, after all.
“Can’t be proper ones, sir, not nohow, because they ain’t got no hazel thickets ‘ereabouts, being foreigners and not knowin’ what’s right, poor buggers! Can’t make proper ‘urdles, sir, not what they ought to be, not wi’ this wood what is all they ‘ave got. Willow, sir? Don’t make our hurdles out of willow; though I ‘ave been told of foreigners down towards Southampton what might, but they don’t know no better down there.”
The thin withies they cut along the river bottom were at least as flexible as split hazel; quite possibly the Portuguese wood bent and twisted more easily, but it was not the right stuff and was therefore unsatisfactory. The hurdles were strong, quickly made and very light to handle; they were almost perfect for their needs – but, when all was said and done, the weavers pointed out, they weren’t proper because they were indisputably foreign.
Blood and Famine (Man of Conflict Series, Book 4) Page 23